


Kill, Fuck, Marry

by lettersbyelise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Comeplay, Dancing, Dialogue Heavy, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Drinking Games, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Getting Together, H/D Wireless 2018, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-23 07:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/pseuds/lettersbyelise
Summary: Malfoy leans toward him with a baleful look. “I do believe Pansy Parkinson, my best friend,paidyou to spend the evening with me.  It’s my birthday, Potter.  So you’re going to get off your Gryffindor arse, and you’re going todancewith me.  I want to dance.  I want to win.  I want that bloody trophy on my shelf before the end of the night.”Harry and Draco unexpectedly meet again on Draco’s birthday, years after their last encounter.





	Kill, Fuck, Marry

**Author's Note:**

> Dear [thisbloodycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Bloody_Cat), I took your prompt and ran with it.  
> Remember the iconic ‘Jack Rabbit Slims’ scene in _Pulp Fiction_? Let’s say it largely inspired this fic, albeit with far less drugs, a lot more sex... and just as much rock’n’roll. Enjoy!
> 
> Many, many thanks to my lovely betas KitGranger and Erin_Riwen <3 All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

There’s a note Spell-o-taped on the door of the big Victorian house.

_Pans, I’m getting dressed. The door’s open and the wards are down. Come inside and make yourself a drink._

Harry plucks it from the door and inspects it. The grain of the paper is heavy and rich, and the neat, spiky handwriting tugs at his memory, although he can’t pinpoint where the rush of unexpected nostalgia comes from.

What kind of name is _Pans,_ anyway?

He’s still not sure why he accepted tonight’s client. _Your good Samaritan complex,_ his assistant Samira would tease. 

Indeed, she might be right. Tonight’s client was an anonymous request. The only information Harry had was this address; no name, age or occupation. Samira was only able to give him her thoughts on the person who had Firecalled: a woman about his age, a pretty brunette with short hair and dark eyes. She had said in a conspiratorial tone that the appointment was a birthday surprise for her best friend, whose childhood dream was to spend an evening with Harry Potter. Who was she to ignore an opportunity to give him the perfect birthday gift?

Fulfilling childhood dreams is easy enough, Harry thinks. It’s what his charity does, after all. He plays the benevolent Saviour of the Wizarding World for an hour or two and his clients go home with stars in their eyes. A win-win situation, really. He has always been so certain he was doing the right thing.

He’s not so certain about it tonight.

Even though it's allowed by the charity rules, he finds himself questioning the wisdom of accepting anonymous appointments. Anyone ready to pay such an indecent amount of money to spend an evening with Harry Potter might not be entirely good news. In any case, tonight, he’s just here to keep someone company: take them out for a quick dinner or a drink, wish them a good night, that’s it. The three thousand Galleons the anonymous lady wired over to Harry’s charity are already safe in the vaults. Worse come to worst, he can get up and leave and he’ll still have been paid for his time.

The first notes of a Muggle song he vaguely recognises drift from behind the door, and he pushes it open. The magic of the wards ripples around him and lets him in as he steps into the foyer of a beautiful wizarding house.

To his right, the hallway opens onto a large, cosy living room. A long black leather sofa takes up almost the entire length of the wall and a shaggy, cream-coloured rug covers the polished hardwood floors. The large marble fireplace crackles with a roaring fire, highlighting framed pictures on the walls. There’s a vintage-looking turntable in a corner, record spinning; the song spills from unseen speakers. _Dusty Springfield,_ he thinks as he recognises the soft, breathy voice of the singer. The song is light and sensual and Harry can’t help but relax a little. He’s met enough people through the years to know that it’s unlikely a Dark wizard would be listening to Muggle pop music.

There’s a bar in one corner of the room and Harry walks over to it, inspecting its well-stocked depths. Next to the bar, a bronze sculpture of a skinny Thestral reminds Harry of the Giacomettis he saw that time with Hermione at the Tate Modern. He regards it with a lifted eyebrow and pulls a bottle of Firewhisky out of the bar.  A heavy-bottomed crystal glass pops onto the shelf, and he pours himself a finger of the smoking, golden liquid, waiting for his client to appear. Walking around the room, he takes a sip of his drink. _Fucking delicious_. He smacks his lips together. He should definitely get a bottle of this next time he shops at Ogden’s.

Dusty Springfield sings about the only boy who could ever reach her, and Harry hums along softly, examining the details of the room.  The owner of the house must be… part of some sort of intellectual profession, Harry guesses. The framed pictures on the walls are actually front pages of wizarding newspapers and magazines in a random mix of headlines.  They look almost as though the owner thought they were artworks by their own rights, a proud display of—something.

And among a minimalist bookshelf near the fireplace, a photograph catches Harry’s attention. He frowns and slowly walks towards it, foreboding gnawing at the back of his consciousness. He takes a breath — and when the faces on the picture finally come into focus, he forgets to exhale.

The picture was taken on the stairs of Trafalgar Square, in Muggle London, which is extremely weird given that the people in it are Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini... and _Draco Malfoy._ Harry’s fingers tense around the glass in his hand and he looks on, fascinated.

The three of them look so happy in the photograph. Harry doesn’t think he remembers seeing Slytherins looking so… so completely unguarded and open and bright, back in Hogwarts.  Maybe they’ve always been like this among themselves, and kept the rest of the world at bay with snide comments and dirty looks.  Or maybe the war changed them too, in ways Harry has no idea about.

He hasn’t laid eyes on any of them since the months after the war, the trials, and Tonks’ funeral, where he had caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s white-blond hair before he’d vanished in the crowd of mourners. He remembers his astonishment at seeing him there, and Hermione’s warning hand on his arm. _‘Leave it, Harry. Don’t you start with Malfoy again,_ ’ she’d whispered urgently. Harry had snorted half-heartedly at the notion.  He felt both broken-hearted and numb, cold and wet from the heavy rain pounding the grounds of the graveyard. Tonks’ funeral was the last of far too many he’d attended. Catching sight of Malfoy had caused an unexpected spike of… of _something_ , deep in his gut. A tiny bit of something that wasn’t cold, dazed or hopeless; a little flicker of instinct he thought had died somewhere among the cold bodies on the floor of the Great Hall.

Here’s Malfoy again, beaming brightly in a framed photograph. He and his friends look so young. The photograph must have been taken a few years ago; they look happier and more carefree than Harry’s ever felt, and he thinks it’s just a little unfair. At the same time, he also feels strangely happy for them, and it’s such a very disconcerting mix of emotions that he forgets why he’s standing here. He’s in a stranger’s living room, the chorus of _Son Of A Preacher Man_ swelling around him, there is a picture of his former nemesis on a shelf—

And the creaking of floorboards from the floor above snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Pansy?” comes a familiar drawl from the top of the stairs, and Harry’s stomach lurches horribly. “Good grief, woman, can you not announce yourself like a normal human person instead of sneaking in like the snake you actually are?”

As Harry turns sharply, a pair of socked feet appears at the top of the stairs, then long, trouser-clad legs. Finally, Harry sets eyes on him again after ten years: buttoning a white shirt that hangs open over his pale, lean torso, white-blond hair still wet from his shower falling in his face.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry’s too startled to move.  A thousand thoughts race through his head, a cacophony of _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ and _that’s Draco fucking Malfoy_ and _wait, is he tonight’s client_ and _does he even know I’m supposed to be here?_

There’s only one thing that comes to his mind.  He’s being paid for this, after all.

“Happy birthday, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s head snaps up sharply, and the record on the turntable scratches to an halt and restarts.  Malfoy’s mouth falls open and his eyes widen and for a split-second, Harry wants to laugh and yell, “Surprise!”

But Malfoy pulls his wand, and instinct takes over.

Before Malfoy can so much as form a word, Harry flicks his fingers and thinks, _Expelliarmus!_ and Malfoy’s wand flies across the room and into his hand. He grabs it, instantly relishing the smooth, friendly feel of the hawthorn wood he’d become so familiar with all those years ago, before he gave the wand back to Malfoy at the trial.

 _Hello, old friend_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t, because it’s _Malfoy’s_ wand now and it’s weird. Before Harry can react any further, Malfoy lets out a snarl like a Kneazle that got his tail caught in a door.

“Potter, did you—did you just—” he stutters, his face pink and twisted with fury.  Harry can’t help it: he gives him a wide-eyed, innocent look as calmly as he can over the incomprehensible din that his heart is making, and he smiles benignly at him, knowing it will infuriate Malfoy even more. What can he say? Old habits die hard.

“Yes?” he prods politely, and Malfoy growls.

“Expelliarmus? _Fucking Expelliarmus?_ Potter, do you even _know_ another spell?”

“This one has proved itself pretty useful so far,” Harry grins smugly.

Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, balling his hands into fists.  Harry can’t tear his eyes away from him, noting the differences between the teenager Malfoy was the last time they met and the man he is now.  Who’d have thought he’d still enjoy teasing that blond git after all these years? It’s like slipping into a pair of comfortable trainers, easy and instinctual. He lets himself feel the fierce — and _probably not very sane,_ a little voice that sounds a lot like Hermione provides — joy of pestering Malfoy.

But then, something shifts and settles on Malfoy’s face. He relaxes his stance, shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and leans against the wall, shirt still half-buttoned, two steps above the ground floor. The furious scowl softens deliberately, and Harry can tell the exact moment he realises Malfoy is going to play along, give him as good as he got.

 _Yes,_ Harry thinks. _Yes, this could be an interesting night._

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Potter?” Malfoy drawls, and examines his cuticles for added effect.  “And by pleasure, I mean your unbelievably rude trespassing of private property and _stealing,_ ” he stresses the word with a pause and a pointed glare, “of another wizard’s wand?”

“Well, since you ask,” Harry answers with a overly mild smile, setting his Firewhisky glass on the nearest shelf. “I think your friend thought you were a little lonely and commissioned an evening with Harry Potter for you.”  He weighs his next words, keeping his eyes fixed on Malfoy as he says them. “Actually, _commissioned_ is inaccurate. She _donated to charity_ for me to spend some time with you. I think the exact wording used was, ‘can you please fulfill a lifelong dream of his, Mr Potter?’”

At that, Malfoy flushes.

Harry expected him to scream and rage and perhaps start throwing bronze Thestrals at him. He did not expect Malfoy to look caught and flustered and surprisingly _cute_ with his cheeks turning pink.

Harry stops short at the thought. 

That can’t be right.  Malfoy is _not_ cute.

When he looks back at him, Malfoy is bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his long nose between his thumb and index finger.

“ _Pansy._ That bloody _cow._ Ugh, that must be her idea of exacting revenge.” He looks up at Harry, almost in earnest. “Sometimes I wish I had fewer Slytherin friends.”

Harry is not sure which part of the last sentence he wants Malfoy to elaborate on.

“What do you mean, _exacting revenge?”_

Malfoy sighs, an irritated little exhale. “Pansy’s birthday was in March, and as a joke, Blaise and I took her to a bar on Diagon where we knew Theo Nott was having drinks.  She and Theo had been on and off for months and we figured we’d have some fun putting them in the same room again. She was so cross with us, Potter, it was fucking hilarious.”  At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs sheepishly. “I guess my point about Slytherin friends holds true for me, too, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Harry concurs, thinking about his own friends’ birthday celebration habits and their overwhelming Gryffindorness. Every birthday Harry and his friends had since they left school consisted of getting blindly sloshed at _The Owl & Snitch _ and spending the next day regretting it.

Malfoy may have a point.

“Which wasn’t even worth being cross with us for, as she ended up fucking Theo again that night. There are worse birthday presents than a nice shag, aren’t there? And they’ve been together since then!”

“Er,” Harry says hesitantly. It’s fun to rile Malfoy up for a minute, perhaps, but he really hasn’t got a reason to ruin his birthday, if that’s what his presence is doing. “She donated a pretty huge amount of money to my charity, you know. For tonight. You know that’s what I do, right?”

“Yes, Potter,”  Malfoy lifts his head and gives him a truly theatrical eye roll. “Everybody in wizarding Britain knows every single thing that you do. Saint Potter, visiting sick children in St Mungo’s,” he enumerates with a bored glance in his direction. “Saint Potter, taking donations from rich witches and wizards for his war orphan fund, for a chance to spend a few hours with him. Saint Potter, buying toilet paper at Tesco. Saint Potter, apparently dating every witch and wizard on British soil.”

Harry feels a blush creeping up the sides of his neck at that.  “Yeah? Been checking the papers for articles about me, then, Malfoy?”

Malfoy fixes him with a cold gaze and a colder smile.  “Maybe I have, but you obviously haven’t done _your_ research about me. I don’t just _read_ the papers. I fucking _write_ them.” He waves a careless hand towards the walls of the living room, towards the framed front pages, and it clicks in Harry’s head.

“You write these papers?!”

Malfoy descends the remaining stairs, chin lifted regally. “One thing I figured out during the endless days I spent in my ancestral home, sharing quarters with a murderous snake-faced maniac, is that the only safe bet in this fucked-up world is the press.  The only thing people will continue to buy happily even in the darkest of times. After the war, well, it was the best option for me. Nobody seemed to care about who wrote the articles, as long as they were juicy enough to titillate their curiosity and their self-righteousness while written within the basic rules of grammar.” He brushes his wet hair out of his face. “A source of income, a place as a productive member of society and a job that’s right up my street? _Of course I write those papers,_ Potter.”

Harry wishes he had time to ponder what he’s just learnt about Malfoy and why he’s never heard about it before. The obvious answer being that he stopped reading the papers after the war, tired as he was to see every single thing he ever did or said splashed across the front pages as though it was the most groundbreaking news in the world.

“Right, so you _write_ stuff about me. That’s somehow even worse,” he says, unable to resist a jab at Malfoy when he has the opportunity.

Malfoy snorts and rolls his eyes again. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. As if I’d waste a drop of ink writing about your pathetic attempts at keeping up with the public’s expectations of what their Saviour should be. You truly haven’t changed, Potter. You still have an ego the size of a mountain troll and the subtlety of a drunk Erumpent.” He narrows his eyes at him. “I write about serious, society-changing subjects, I’ll have you know. I won the Prophecy Prize two years ago.”

Harry has no idea what the Prophecy Prize is or that Malfoy won it. He doesn’t like to be wrong-footed, and decides to bring the argument back to their original topic.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very important, Malfoy, I get it. It still doesn’t tell me whether I’m wasting my next few hours on you or not.”

“The day I go out with you is the day I win a dance contest doing the twist.”

“An image that’s going to haunt my nightmares for a few weeks. Thanks for that. I’ll have to ask Hermione to Obliviate me when I’m done with tonight. Anyway,” he stops, thinking about the note Samira wrote about tonight’s appointment, and he continues, bursting with anticipated glee, “your friend Pansy booked my services saying that it was your _childhood dream_ to spend an evening with Harry Potter.”

Malfoy’s eyes lift sharply to Harry’s and — there it is again.  He’s _blushing._ Fuck. There really is something about a blushing Malfoy that makes Harry’s insides squirm with something... not entirely uncomfortable.

He also looks mortified, but when he opens his mouth, instead of the vitriolic comment Harry expects, he says, sharp and proud: “Yes, well. That’s no secret to you, is it? That I wanted to be your friend, that is. When we were eleven.”

Harry remembers: an eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy, a skinny, pointy boy with hair and eyes just as pale as they are now; the hand he’d held out and the offer of friendship Harry had rejected. He can’t bring himself to regret it. Malfoy was such an obnoxious git back then. but he also can’t help but... _wonder._

“Yeah, I remember,” he tells him.

“Fortunately, I soon found out what a horribly egotistic little arsehole you were, and I was hence quickly disabused of the notion that befriending you would be beneficial, let alone remotely pleasant,” Malfoy drawls, changing the mood between them so quickly that Harry is, again, uncertain how he’s supposed to deal with him. He decides to look away from Malfoy’s mocking grey eyes. It’s not much better, if he’s honest, because his eyes just trail helplessly along the long line of Malfoy’s torso, still visible through his half-open shirt. Malfoy catches him staring and he frowns a little.

“What are you gawking at, Potter? Was I not clear before? What part of _Piss off_ isn’t comprehensible to you?”

 _Merlin._ Malfoy is every bit as rude and infuriating as he always was, isn’t he? If Harry had any sense, he’d do as he’s told. He’d turn around and leave, and tell Samira to change his charity’s policy about allowing anonymous appointments.  And yet… Something in Malfoy’s tone, or perhaps the sight of that long expense of pale, perfect skin, makes Harry… curious. He knows he probably won’t get another opportunity to spend a whole evening teasing his former nemesis.  It’s for old times’ sake, really, that he does. Nothing more. So he tries one more time. It’s always been so easy to bait Malfoy. He wonders if he lost his touch with him after all these years.

“But your friend paid good money for me to take you out,” he says almost sweetly, and his tone makes Malfoy visibly cringe. Harry grins. “You wouldn’t want it to go to waste, would you?”

“Pansy is richer than Nicholas Flamel,” Malfoy huffs. “Serves her well for playing ridiculous tricks on her best friend.”

“And what will you do?” Harry continues, advancing towards Malfoy now. Malfoy, who looks around a bit nervously before letting his eyes rest on Harry again. “Mope around your house, the night of your birthday, wondering what it would have been like to try something different than what you had planned for once?”

“I won’t—” Malfoy glares at him, appalled. “Not in your wildest dreams would I spend an evening wondering what it would be like to go out with _you,_ Potter!”

“Besides, you’re already — well, _almost_ dressed,” Harry looks pointedly at his half-open shirt.  He’s standing so close to him now, can smell the faint, clean smell of soap and a cologne that’s probably more expensive than the bloody Thestral sculpture. “It would be a shame not to flaunt the outfit that you no doubt spent an hour to select. Preferably in some snooty French restaurant or another.”

At that, Malfoy stares at him for a second, then he throws his head back and laughs. Harry gapes at him, bewildered. He’s not sure he ever heard that sound before. Malfoy laughs, bright and full of humour, an actual laugh and not the mocking snorts and snickers he’s got Harry used to. Harry just _stares,_ suddenly feeling exposed, too close to a still half-clothed Malfoy whose unexpected reactions are making Harry’s heart twist and speed up in his chest.

“Potter,” he says, wiping his eyes when he’s done laughing. “Is that really what you thought I had planned? A snobbish evening at a poncy restaurant?”

“Well, you’re a snobbish git. Isn’t that what you like?”

Malfoy fixes him, his eyes a little mocking, too warm for comfort. “Do you know,” he tells him, all thoughtful faux-innocence, “because you assumed that about me, I’m actually going to go out with you. However, we’ll go where Pansy and I had originally planned to spend the evening.”

“And where would that be?” Harry asks defiantly.

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy’s sweet smile morphs into a rather feral grin, and he fastens the remaining buttons of his shirt.  Harry stares some more, and Malfoy takes the opportunity to snatch his wand back from Harry’s limp grip. “Somewhere you can barely handle, I’m sure.”

And with a snap of his fingers, he stops the Dusty Springfield song in its tracks and says, “Let’s go.”

 

*^*^*

 

Malfoy Apparates them to a dark cobbled street that looks wet from recent rain, although not a drop has fallen that evening. Half the shop windows are boarded up, creaking signs hanging above them like bad omens, and Harry turns sharply to Malfoy.

“Knockturn Alley? _Seriously,_ Malfoy?”

Malfoy shrugs, not even looking remotely guilty.

“It’s the only wizarding place one can have fun these days.”

“I swear, if you’re planning anything illegal—”

“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy sighs dramatically, pulling Harry by the arm. “Your virtue is safe with me.”

They walk down the street a short distance, Harry throwing suspicious glances left and right. His instincts scream contradictory messages such as _Leave at once_ and _Hey, Malfoy’s hand is surprisingly warm through the fabric of your sleeve,_ disconcerting to the point that Harry doesn’t notice when they’ve stopped in front of an inconspicuous black door until he hears Malfoy tap it lightly with his wand. With a jerk, he untangles his arm from Malfoy’s and throws him an affronted glare. Malfoy’s answering gaze is infuriatingly smug.

“What is it, Potter? Too hot for you, am I?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry mumbles, brushing his hands down his jacket to give himself a reason to look away from Malfoy’s gleaming grey eyes.

Fortunately, the door swings open just then, letting out a wave of warm air and music and laughter. Intrigued, Harry cranes his neck to peer inside.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Malfoy says and grabs him by the arm again, dragging him inside.

And isn’t the inside a surprise. Unlike anything that Harry could imagine judging by the dingy front of the building, the inside is actually a lively Muggle-themed wizarding pub. The place is crowded; there are people sitting in booths or standing at the bar lining the four walls or dancing barefoot on the dance floor in the middle of the room. There are wizards and witches and a few other magical creatures.  Harry thinks he sees a group of Veelas huddled together in a booth and he swears that the waiter flashing him a smile full of sharp, white canines is a vampire. The walls are plastered with posters of vintage Muggle films and concerts and the enchanted jukebox on his right is spilling a rapid-fire, oriental-sounding song. _The Hidden Hollow,_ a flashing neon sign above the bar proclaims. It’s loud and smoky and noisy and just — so definitely _not snooty —_ that Harry has to turn and check that this is indeed the place Malfoy had in mind.

To his surprise, Malfoy looks as comfortable waiting for a table here as he would be in a fancy hotel bar. His eyes sparkle as though he’s having the perfect birthday evening. Harry stares at him, bewildered, before his brain catches up and he can form a full sentence again.

 _“This_ is where you and Pansy Parkinson were going to spend your birthday tonight?”

Malfoy turns to eye him wearily. “Look, I know we never were the best of friends back in the day and we haven’t seen each other in years, so I don’t know exactly what image you have of me.  Pansy and I have very busy work lives and we just like to blow off some steam somewhere no one is ever going to judge us for what we used to be. There are no such places on Diagon Alley, so we had to resort to visiting Knockturn sometimes and—turns out you can find these kinds of hidden gems if you look long enough. I suppose you don’t have that kind of problem.” His eyes travel down Harry’s body then back to his face, landing pointedly on the scar on his forehead, and his lips curl into a half-smile. “Or maybe you do, in reverse.”

Harry thinks back to all of the times he had Hermione cast a glamour on him just so he could enjoy an evening out at the pub without being mobbed by the public or the press. He finds that, however unlikely it is, Malfoy seems to understand that about him.

They’re interrupted by a waitress who appears to have made a valiant attempt at dressing like a Muggle, in a rather disastrous combination of leopard print mini-skirt, bright pink tank top and ski jacket on top.

“Have you booked a table?” she asks with a wide-eyed smile. If she recognises either of them, she hides it very well. Maybe the personnel here is paid to treat all patrons the same regardless of their status outside of the walls of the pub, Harry muses.

“Yes, booth for two, name Parkinson,” Malfoy drawls, and Harry can hear it’s laced with the dressing-down Pansy Parkinson is going to get when the evening is over. He barely holds back a snort. Malfoy throws him a sharp look. “Problem, Potter?”

“None at all,” he shakes his head and follows the waitress to a dark, cosy corner where a free booth is waiting for them.

They take their seats, facing each other across the narrow wooden table. The waitress hands them paper menus stained with grease — and what Harry hopes is only ketchup — and saunters away.

Harry flicks through the dishes printed in smudged ink and sighs. “Malfoy, can we just go someplace that serves steak?”

Malfoy looks up from his menu, affronted. _“Steak?_ This is my _birthday,”_ he says in mock-outrage.  “We’re going to get something fun and delicious, not bloody steak-and-potatoes, you uncouth peasant.” At Harry’s frown, he relaxes a little, gives him a small smile. “Come on, Potter. None of that self-righteous Gryffindor mood tonight.  Don’t be a—” he traces a square in the air with his index finger, and Harry can’t help but chuckle. Malfoy is actually _funny._ A little theatrical and ridiculous, but funny nonetheless. Who knew?

He thinks he might like that about him a little.

“Let’s see, then,” Harry says, peering back at the stained parchment. “The ‘Burger King’… they’d probably get sued for that if the Muggles knew about it, but okay… the ‘Chocolate Shake, Shake, Shake’… Malfoy, this one is ten fucking Galleons. They’re aware it’s only chocolate ice cream and milk? How can it cost ten Galleons?” He continues, positively outraged. “This place is unbelievable. ‘The Little Red Riding Hood Pie’? Please tell me it’s just normal meat and mash?”

Malfoy surveys him with a smile that grows wider and more delighted by the minute. “Oh, this is going to be entertaining,” he says, nearly clapping his hands. “Surely not as good as if I was out with Pansy, but fun enough. That crazy bint does have good ideas occasionally, doesn’t she?”

“Taking satisfaction in my misery is your idea of a birthday present, is it?”

“How did you guess?” Malfoy grins wickedly. “After all, it’s my _childhood dream_ come true.”

Harry snorts. He’s about to snap back at Malfoy when the waitress appears next to their booth again.

“Hi, I’m Kelly, at your service tonight. Did you have any questions about the menu?”

“We’re good,” Malfoy tells her. He hands her his parchment. “I’ll have the 'Burger King' — and a gin and tonic. More gin, less tonic, alright?”

“How do you want your burger?” Kelly asks. “Dragonfire charred, or Bloody-Baron rare?”

“Make it bloody as hell, sweetheart,” Malfoy winks at her, and Harry almost chokes on air.

When Kelly turns a questioning gaze at him, he throws one last desperate glance to the menu. “I’ll have… the 'Herdsman Pie', whatever that is, and a pint of lager. Thank you.”

Kelly writes everything down on a notepad and leaves. Around them, the crowd is denser and the noise level increasing by the minute, and Harry wonders how he’s never heard of this place before. Come to think about it, he hasn’t heard of that many wizarding pubs and bars in general; he and his friends tend to always meet at the same pub on Diagon Alley. Gryffindors are creatures of habit, it seems. Either that, or they’re just becoming boring as they age. Not exactly brilliant news, sadly.

When he looks back at Malfoy, he finds him casually leaning against the back of his seat, legs spread wide and eyes trained on Harry. He seems perfectly at ease now, far from the aggressive wariness he had displayed back in his house. Well, Harry had surprised him rather badly, he supposes. Harry himself would probably not have reacted much better if Malfoy had shown up at Grimmauld Place uninvited after ten years and proceeded to _Expelliarmus_ him in lieu of a birthday present.

Now, Malfoy looks — relaxed, almost friendly. And Harry feels slightly guilty for spoiling his birthday.

“Look, Malfoy,” he starts. “I’m sorry for showing up tonight. I had no idea who the appointment was for. I honestly thought the person I was meeting would be happy to see me. I should probably change the policy and avoid surprise appointments like—”

Malfoy interrupts him with a dramatic eye roll. “Please, Potter, leave it alone. I had almost forgotten about the fact that I’m here with you. Don’t make it worse.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it worse. I was just trying to — to tell you I understand if you’re disappointed.”

Malfoy’s cool grey eyes are on his again, unwavering, and Harry fights the urge to squirm in his seat.

“It’s fine,” Malfoy tells him, and Harry doesn’t miss the finality in his tone. “Don’t worry, I’m a Slytherin, after all. We do tend to make the best out of any situation.”

Harry smiles at him before he can stop himself; before he can think about why he does. “Okay,” he says, and Malfoy smiles back, one eyebrow raised in mute amusement. He taps his fingers once, twice on the wooden table, then asks Harry: “So this is what you do for a living? Inflict impromptu dates on unaware wizards? Or is it some kind of charitable service to give wizarding losers a sense of importance?”

Harry barely contains a snort. “Which of these categories are you including yourself in?”

“None of them!” Malfoy looks scandalised. “I’m merely making small talk.”

“Fine,” Harry laughs. “No, that’s not what it is. Well, not exactly. I started this charity project a few years ago. People donate a certain amount and in exchange, they get to spend time with Harry Potter. All donations go to _Dandelion Children_ — it’s a fund for war orphans I started with Hermione and Ron.  But I also visit people for free if they can’t afford to donate. The Children Ward Healers at St Mungo’s call it—” he cringes, not entirely sure he wants to tell Malfoy the next bit, _‘the Harry Potter Days.’”_

As expected, Malfoy’s smile widens. Unexpectedly, Harry’s stomach does a weird backflip at the sight.

“Oh my,” Malfoy says, apparently delighted with Harry’s explanations. “This is brilliant. The birthday present that keeps giving. Tell me, though, why do you refer to yourself as _Harry Potter?_ How far does your sense of self-importance extend?”

“Because — that’s how these people think of me. They’re going out with _Harry Potter,_ you know? None of them really know me, ah — as well as you do.”

This earns him another eyebrow lift. “I don’t really know you.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He genuinely thought Malfoy would brag about knowing all about him. “I mean — not everyone has spent six years in school with me, even though... we weren’t exactly friends.”

Malfoy laughs. “That’s quite the understatement.”

Kelly comes back with their drinks. Malfoy’s glass has slices of cucumber and a green straw floating in it. He pinches the straw between his thumb and index and wraps his lips around it. Harry swallows hard and quickly brings his own pint to his mouth.

“Mmh,” Malfoy hums appreciatively. “Perfect.” He looks up at Harry with a grin. “Wanna try?” He slides his glass across the table. Harry leaves his beer and takes Malfoy’s glass, hesitant.

“You can use my straw,” Malfoy tells him. “I’m not — sick, or anything.”

Harry smiles, looking down at the glass to avoid looking into Malfoy’s eyes. “Yeah, but maybe I am.”

“Nothing I cannot handle,” Malfoy says.

Harry takes a sip and splutters immediately. “Merlin, Malfoy! This is almost pure gin!”

Malfoy grins slyly. “I did warn you it was perfect.”

“Being ninety percent gin is not what makes a gin-and-tonic perfect!”

“Fine, you big sissy. Just... go back to your pint of Hippogriff piss or whatever.”

They sip their drinks in silence — in almost companionable silence, Harry notes, amazed. It’s not easy, but then, when was anything involving Malfoy ever easy? Despite everything, he thinks he can survive this evening. He’ll just have to think about a few conversation topics to keep them going until they finish their food, and then…

Then Harry can go home, and never see Malfoy again.

Which, curiously, doesn’t sound as exciting as it would have done a few hours ago, before he had arrived at Malfoy’s house.

“Don’t you hate that?” Malfoy’s posh accent cuts through his thoughts. He’s resting his elbow on the table, looking at Harry thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Uncomfortable silences.”

“It’s not uncomfortable,” Harry objects. He feels fine, actually. He has no idea why Malfoy said that.

Malfoy leans back and rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed, in a way that’s almost endearing. He looks vaguely nervous for the first time since they sat in their booth.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’m just… so used to people filling the silence with mindless, incessant chatter. Sometimes I think they specifically do that around me, as though by doing so they can avoid having an actual conversation with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry tells him, startled by Malfoy’s words, freely proffered. “I’m pretty bad at small talk, so—”

“I like it,” Malfoy interrupts. “We’ve never been great at small talk, you and I, have we?”

“Are you saying we should stick to our old habits? In that case, I’ll be on the lookout for your next insult,” Harry grins.

“Don’t hold your breath. My insults are so good, half of them would probably fly over your head, you great big oaf.”

“Yeah, that was really subtle, Malfoy, thank you,” Harry says, hiding his smile into his pint.

Silence settles over them again, both of them looking around at the crowded pub. It’s amazing how nobody has come to bother them for the entire time they’ve been sitting here. Where he usually hangs out, he can barely catch a three-minute break between starstruck fans stopping by his table to say hello.

“This is when you know you’ve found someone really special,” Malfoy speaks again, and Harry turns to look at him. He’s turned towards the crowd, not Harry; his sharp profile and high cheekbones highlighted by the golden lights of the pub.  The thought pops into Harry’s mind, unbidden, of just how fucking attractive Malfoy is. There’s no denying that he was _pretty_ at sixteen, but he’s _gorgeous_ now as an adult. And Harry realises, with a rush of desire that terrifies him, that he might like this evening with Malfoy to turn into the whole night.

“Huh?” he asks, sounding stupid and not caring, so unsettled he is by his sudden epiphany.

Malfoy turns his sharp eyes on him.

“I’m saying, that’s when you know you’ve found someone truly special. When you can sit together, shut the fuck up for a minute, and nobody gets flustered or uncomfortable.”

“Ah,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. He wonders how plain his thoughts were on his face. “I don’t know that we’re there yet, but hey,” he throws Malfoy a wry grin, “we just met again for the first time in ten years.”

Malfoy gives him an answering half-smile.

“Tell you what, Potter. I’m going to the loo. You sit here and think of something to say for when I’m back.”

“I’ll do that,” Harry grins, and watches Malfoy stand and stride off to the loo. The glass of gin-and-tonic is nearly empty but Malfoy walks surprisingly straight for someone who’s consumed a glass of almost pure alcohol in a matter of minutes.  Harry’s eyes travel the long expense of his back, the light swell of his arse in those perfectly fitted trousers, and then he shakes himself, horrified. This is _Malfoy,_ for fuck’s sake.  He is — well, _was —_ a massive git.  Harry cannot — will not — let himself be attracted to him. He drinks the remainder of his beer in two long swallows, wondering as he waves for Kelly to bring refills if he really should be drinking another one.

Malfoy comes back three minutes later, after Kelly has left their orders of food and drinks on the table. He slides gracefully into the booth and hums appreciatively when he sees his burger.

“Don’t you love it when you come back from the loo and your food is waiting for you?”

“It’s the best,” Harry opines.

Malfoy grabs his burger and takes a huge bite. Harry hides a smile behind his hand.

“Whah?”  Malfoy asks him, his mouth full.

“I honestly pictured you as the type who cuts his burger with a fork and knife and picks at his food like a prissy snob.”

“So glad to hear you think so highly of me, Potter. It’s truly heartwarming.”

“Well, you used to fit the bill for a prissy snob, back in the day.”

“I probably did,” Malfoy concedes, and takes another undignified bite of his burger. 

Harry slides a small bit of Herdsman Pie onto his fork and takes a tentative mouthful. Okay. It just tastes like shepherd's pie, thank Merlin. With maybe a dash of cinnamon in the ground meat. That fucking pub, honestly.

“Well?” Malfoy asks him when he’s halfway through his burger. “Did you think about what I said? What do you want to talk about?”

Harry wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “I didn’t think about it, sorry.”

“How you defeated the Dark Lord with that level of foresight is beyond me, Potter,” Malfoy sighs. “Fortunately, I came up with an idea.”

“Yeah?” Harry looks up in interest.

“Yep. We should play ‘Marry, Fuck, Kill’, but let’s make it a drinking game. Whoever loses a round has to drink up his drink and order a new one.”

“How exactly do you lose at ‘Marry, Fuck, Kill’?” Harry asks, amused. Malfoy is a little bit mad. Unafraid of being a bit ridiculous for the sake of fun, in a way Harry suspects was already true when they were at Hogwarts, and which he finds unbearably charming now when he thinks of Malfoy as a adult.

“Oh, but there are ways to lose at ‘Marry, Fuck, Kill’,” Malfoy waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Some choices are better than others.”

“By which you mean your choices are better than mine, do you?”

“I promise I shall play in good faith,” Malfoy tells him grandly, taking a long sip of his second gin-and-tonic.

“Careful there,” Harry smirks. “You might want to keep some of that for when you lose the first round.”

Malfoy slams his glass on the table.

“Bring it on, Potter.”

Harry thinks for a second. “Er, okay. Let’s say… Marry, Fuck, Kill, Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin.”

Malfoy snickers into his glass.  “Merlin, Potter. This is so bad, I’m going to have to take points from Gryffindor.”

“Or perhaps just... fuck him,” Harry smirks back, hoping he doesn’t blush too badly at how his words sound.

“Sweet Merlin, as if I’d ever fuck a Gryffindor, let alone the original one,” Malfoy snickers, and Harry is just a tiny bit disappointed. “You guys are probably too self-righteous to be any fun in bed.”  He frowns, speaking with a deep, brutish voice. _“Oh, darling, am I hurting you with my —_ sword of Gryffindor?”  He snickers, reverting back to his normal posh tones, “I can just see the boring, vanilla kind of sex you Gryffindors have from miles.”

Harry is definitely blushing right now, but he’s damned if he lets this one fly. “Just answer the bloody question, Malfoy.”

“Alright. It’s a stupid question, though.”

“It’s a stupid game, and you’re the one who picked it.”

Malfoy pretends to think about it for a second. “Alright. Marry Ravenclaw, fuck Slytherin, kill Gryffindor.”

“Okay, the last one I could anticipate. Why marry Rowena, though? I would imagine that you’d like to spend your life rolling around in green silk sheets with the archetypal Slytherin.”

“As much as you seem to enjoy the thought of me rolling around in green silk sheets, Potter, it is actually all part of a well-thought-out plan.”

“A well-thought-out plan that you came up with in the last millisecond?” Harry jabs, ignoring the comment about his supposedly secret fantasy about Malfoy.

“Indeed. That’s a Slytherin for you. I would marry Ravenclaw because she’s clever. I’d send her to get a really great job, have her bring a shitload of Galleons home, and live a life of leisure myself.”

“A kept man? Is that your dream?”

“My dream is spending an evening with Harry Potter, apparently,”  Malfoy gives him tit for tat. “And this is within the universe of our little game.”

“You lose, though,” Harry smirks, feeling incredibly bold as he says the next words. “Gryffindor is the one you should fuck. I assure you, we’re notoriously amazing in bed.”

Malfoy’s eyes are piercing but Harry forces himself to maintain the eye contact until — until one of them turns away.

But Malfoy never looks away from him as he smiles slowly. “An allegation you can neither prove nor disprove. I suggest we both drink up.”

“Fine,” Harry concedes just to have an excuse to look away from Malfoy’s searching gaze. They both throw back their drinks, and Malfoy gestures to the waitress for refills.

“My turn,” he says, his words starting to slur a bit. Harry is not feeling much more sober. “Marry, Fuck, Kill… Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape.”

Harry hides his face into his hands and groans.

“Ugh, Malfoy! I knew you’d do something like this!”

Malfoy laughs delightedly. “Answer the question, Potter.”

Harry scratches his head and thinks about it for a second.

“Marry McGonagall. Fuck Dumbledore. Kill Snape.”

“Oh, interesting.” Malfoy leans over the table, a feral grin playing on his lips. “Explain.”

“Kill Snape because — because he’s already dead so I don’t feel too bad killing him.”

Malfoy shakes his head, muttering something about self-righteous Gryffindors, and Harry thinks he might have a point. He continues. “Marry McGonagall because… I just… the thought of _fucking_ McGonagall is…” He winces, and Malfoy shudders in answer.

“Yes, indeed. So you’d fuck Dumbledore, huh? Always knew there was something special between you two,” Malfoy winks at him.

“Ew.  Please. I have enough nightmares as it is.” At Harry’s words, Malfoy’s grin fades a bit, and Harry hastens to elaborate. “Actually, it’s less ‘Have sex with Dumbledore’ and more—” he flips a middle finger in the general direction of the room, “‘Fuck Dumbledore’.”

“Mmh,” Malfoy hums thoughtfully.  “So, not so great, huh?”

“No, not so great.”

Malfoy keeps quiet for a moment and Harry fiddles with his glass. “Perhaps we should both drink again,” Malfoy muses. “There was definitely no right answer to this one.”

They drink up, the liquid cooling Harry’s insides for a second before the additional alcohol takes effect and he goes back to feeling slightly too warm for comfort.

“This was fun,” Malfoy says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are pink and wet from drink, and Harry instinctively licks his own, catches himself doing it, and clenches his fists until he stops. “But if we keep this going, we’ll end up too sloshed to find our way out of this place. I like this place, Harry, just not to the point of sleeping here tonight.”

The voluntary use of Harry’s given name in Malfoy’s mouth sends a little pang to his heart. It’s nice, he thinks. It’s as though they’re friends, or could be.  Malfoy has called him ‘Potter’ for so long, he’s come to wonder if he even knows his first name is Harry. “Alright,” Harry smiles. “Let me finish that rather delicious Herdsman’s Pie then, to absorb some of the alcohol.”

“Good call, Potter,” Malfoy says, tucking in his burger, and the moment when Harry could have been just _Harry_ passes, leaving him with a light but undeniable sense of regret.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” calls a wizard with an impressive moustache and an even more impressive round belly. He’s standing in the middle of the dancefloor and the dancers from a moment ago have all cleared the space. Kelly the waitress in the abysmal Muggle outfit is standing next to him, holding a golden trophy with a big bright smile. The wizard points his wand at his throat and casts a Sonorus. “Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for… the world-famous Hidden Hollow Muggle Twist Contest!”

People cheer around them and Harry lifts a curious eyebrow at Malfoy. He’s rather nervous to find that Malfoy is staring at the round wizard with an intent, focussed look that cannot bode well for Harry.

“Tonight, one lucky couple will win the handsome trophy that Kelly is holding here,” the wizard continues. “Now, who will be our first contestants…?”

Malfoy’s hand shoots up in the air. Harry groans.

“Malfoy! Put your hand down!”

Malfoy rounds on him instantly.

“I want to dance, Potter.”

“No. No no no no no. I’m not doing this.”

Malfoy leans toward him with a baleful look. “I do believe Pansy Parkinson, my best friend, _paid_ you to spend the evening with me. It’s my birthday, Potter. So you’re going to get off your Gryffindor arse, and you’re going to dance with me. I want to dance. I want to win. I want that bloody trophy on my shelf before the end of the night.”

And without waiting for Harry to react, he stands and strides off to the dancefloor.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and follows him.

The round wizard welcomes them with a grin.

“Ah, welcome, welcome,” he says, his booming voice doing nothing to ease Harry’s nerves. “So, let’s hear it from our first contestants here.” He points his wand to Malfoy. “Young man, what’s your name?”

“Draco Malfoy.” A few people cheer in the crowd.

“And how about your fellow here?” the wizard points his wand at Harry, but Malfoy grabs it and speaks in that mock-brutish voice again.

“Harry Potter.”

More cheers and a few whoops and Harry feels his face heat again. The wizard and Kelly walk away from the dancefloor.

“Alright, let’s see what you can do,” he tells them. “Take it away!”

The enchanted Muggle jukebox in the corner starts playing a jaunty twist song.

Immediately, Malfoy starts moving. He’s dancing a ridiculously exaggerated version of a twist, holding his arms out loosely and twisting his hips. He has a focussed expression on his aristocratic features and Harry can’t help but stare and laugh for a second. Merlin, what a ridiculously fun, unexpected evening. Or perhaps… _Draco_ is.  He’s unexpectedly brilliant, and Harry likes him. It’s so weird and out of place to realise that about him in the middle of a dancefloor when he’s supposed to dance and try to win a twist contest, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

_Harry fancies Draco Malfoy._

The same Draco Malfoy throws him a dirty look and jabs him in the ribs until Harry’s brain catches up with what he’s supposed to be doing, and he starts dancing, too.  He probably looks like a right tit — he’s certain he does — but Draco smirks at him with a little flash of something that looks like gratitude. If it makes Draco look at him like that, it doesn’t really matter how he looks as he dances anyway. Feeling bold and loose with alcohol, he grabs Draco’s hand and spins him around, which earns him a delighted laugh from Draco and more cheers from the crowd.

“Potter, I like that!” Draco exclaims in his ear when he pulls him close after the spin. “You giving it one hundred and ten percent like a good little Gryffindor!”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry laughs and spins him again, “or I’m walking out of here and leaving you alone to finish this.”

“Don't you dare!” Draco drapes his arms around Harry’s shoulders and twists _and twists_ his hips until Harry’s dizzy and his mouth is dry. “Please stay,” he whispers with a secret smile. “We’re winning this.”

 

*^*^*

 

The door flies open and Harry and Draco waltz in, hand in hand and humming the last song that played on the jukebox at The Hidden Hollow. Draco is wearing Harry’s jacket like a cape, and the golden trophy is tucked under his arm as Harry holds him close.

They dance a few tango steps into Draco’s living room, until Draco backs Harry against the wall.

They come to a stop, breathing slightly faster than they normally would, and maintain eye contact for what feels to Harry like an excruciatingly long time. But what does he know, anyway? He’s still a bit tipsy, and so is Draco. The fact that he’s no longer thinking about him as ‘Malfoy’ is proof enough of his state of inebriation.

He swallows. “Is this an uncomfortable silence?”

Draco takes a step back. “I don’t know what this is.” He runs his fingers through his hair, then says, “Drinks! Music!” at the top of his voice, startling Harry like the dramatic arsehole he is.

Harry can’t help the stupid grin that seems permanently etched on his face. His face hurts from smiling so much. He really did have a lovely time tonight after all. He’s no sure why it’s making him so uneasy.

True to his grand declaration, Draco wiggles his fingers toward the turntable that played the Dusty Springfield song when Harry had picked him up a few hours before.  Another song comes on this time. He turns and points at Harry and starts singing, loudly and completely off-key, “Giiiirl…” He mimes playing the guitar, “You’ll be a womaaaaaan, soon!”

Harry dissolves into giggles. “I’m going to go use the loo,” he tells Draco when he manages to catch his breath between two fits of laughter, “and then I’ll be off.”

Draco lifts his eyebrows but says nothing and continues to dance and sing around the living room with Harry’s jacket dangling from his shoulder and the trophy dangling from his fingers. He looks mad and off his nut and terribly charming, and — yeah.  Harry definitely, really really likes him.

The bronze Thestral seems to glare at him judgmentally when he rushes off to the nearest loo, bolting the door behind him. Leaning against the heavy wood, he catches his reflection in the mirror. His hair is a mess, even worse than usual, which is saying something. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are gleaming with what he assumes is part alcohol and part having the most fun he’s had in a long time.

He moves to stand at the sink and wash his hands. The cool water seems to sharpen his senses. He catches his eyes in the mirror again; they look startlingly green, much more so under the warm light here than they usually do.

“One drink and leave, Potter,” he tells his reflection seriously. “One drink, don’t be rude, but drink it quickly and then leave.” He dries his hands on the towel hanging next to the sink. “That’s the polite thing to do.  He offered you a drink, you drink it, then you say goodbye and you bloody well leave.” He shakes his head at mirror-Harry who shrugs, as if acknowledging that both of them are probably too woozy to heed Harry’s pep talk. “You’re done making a fool of yourself tonight, Harry. Don’t try anything funny; just because he acts like a complete flirt doesn’t mean anything. You’ve misinterpreted this stuff before and you’re on a job right now, aren’t you.  Don’t fuck clients, remember? You’re a professional. A _professional,_ Harry.”

He steps back, meticulously straightens his shirt and fixes his hair the way only drunk people do, and nods one last time to the mirror. “So you’re going to go out there, drink your drink, tell him you had a lovely evening, go home and have a long, nice wank. And that’s _all_ you’re going to do.”

He opens the door and walks back to the living room, stopping in his tracks when he sees Draco. Draco, who’s thrown Harry’s jacket over the back of a chair, kicked off his shoes and socks in a corner, popped the top three buttons of his shirt open, and is now shamelessly dancing barefoot to the song blasting out of the speakers, shaking his white-blond hair as he goes.

Harry goes to him, gently puts his hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eye. One of them has to be reasonable, right? “Let’s — sit down, shall we?” He leads him to the dark leather sofa flanking the whole side of the wall. “Did you fix those drinks you talked about?”

Draco collapses on the sofa and waves a negligent hand towards the coffee table, eyes warm and intent on Harry.  “Over there.”

“Here.” Harry hands him one tumbler of Firewhisky and takes the other. “This is very unreasonable, you know that.”

“What is? The extra drink, or this whole—” he gestures between them, “—situation?”

Harry hesitates. “Er… both?”

“What’s so unreasonable about you and me, Harry?” Draco mumbles into his glass, so low that Harry almost misses it, if only for the use of his given name. So Draco’s been doing it too, he thinks. Calling him ‘Harry’ privately. The thought makes him dizzy, or perhaps it’s the Firewhisky he doesn’t need to be drinking.

“I’m sure there’s… something. But I honestly can’t remember?” he tells him earnestly, scratching his head and taking another sip from his drink.

Draco leans back further against the cushions, almost reclining. His open collar gapes a little and Harry catches a glimpse of pale, creamy skin and a sharp collarbone. His mouth feels dry. Must be the alcohol.

Draco is studying him from above the rim of his glass. “You know, it’s still my birthday, Potter,” he muses, his cut-glass accent barely slurring the words. “Do you want to know what I’d like? For my birthday?”

“What would you like for your birthday, Malfoy?” Harry asks absentmindedly, too engrossed in the contemplation of Draco’s lean body sprawled out on the sofa like an offering.

He almost drops his glass when Draco’s foot slithers into his lap — and his heel presses right against Harry’s crotch. He looks down at the elegant arch of it, at the bulge of his own treacherous cock instantly heavy with lust, at Draco’s toes curling in a completely unsubtle invitation, then back at Draco, whose cool grey eyes are steady and hot on his, not a hint of intoxication in sight.

“I want you to fuck me, Potter,” he tells him, the ‘f’ sharp and sure, and Harry thinks he could just come right then from the ungodly contrast between that posh, aristocratic mouth and the obscene sentence it’s just spilled.

“Fuck,” he whispers for lack of a better response.

“That’s the general idea, yes,” Draco smirks, pressing his foot more insistently against the ridge of Harry’s erection. When did he get hard so quickly, for fuck’s sake?

“I think—” Harry swallows helplessly, “—I think you misunderstood what Pansy paid for. Please don’t get the wrong idea, but… see, I’m not — I’m not getting paid to fuck you.”

“Then fuck me for free,” Draco grins like a shark. He starts rubbing his foot against the hard length of Harry’s prick, and Harry nearly moans. 

Somewhere in his brain the thought registers that despite his demurrals, he hasn’t yet made an attempt to push Draco’s foot away. “Come on, Draco,” he manages from between clenched teeth. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not,” Draco argues. “I am _very_ certain I want this. Trust me, you wouldn’t be _taking advantage.”_  At Harry’s undecisive look, he throws his hands up. “Ugh, Potter. What did I say earlier about you Gryffindors being too self-righteous to ever be good at sex?” He withdraws his foot from Harry’s lap, folds his arms over his chest and looks aways in a huff. “Thanks for proving my point.”

Harry acts on instinct.

He throws himself at Draco, catching his surprised gasp against his lips as he kisses him. The gasp instantly turns into a whiny sort of moan when Draco lets Harry slip his tongue inside. His mouth is hot and wet and tastes like expensive Firewhisky and Harry doesn’t know if he’s more drunk on alcohol or on the feel of Draco’s soft, pliant lips opening under his. The languid strokes of Draco’s tongue send sparks of want straight to his cock, his long body fitting perfectly under Harry’s, pressed into the seat cushions of the sofa.

When they break for air, Draco laughs into Harry’s neck. “I forgot you Gryffindors have one redeeming quality, at least… you’re so easily manipulated.”

“Oh, yeah, Malfoy,” Harry grunts, glasses askew, roughly unbuttoning the rest of Draco’s shirt while planting bruising kisses along the side of his arched, pale neck. “Bluntly asking me to fuck you while giving me a footjob? Such a Machiavellian scheme. You’re a strategic mastermind.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco tells him, but he’s still laughing, so the words really have no bite. They haven’t had for many hours, now, Harry thinks blurrily as Draco begins to undulate his hips under him. The movement echoes the way they danced at the pub earlier, and the thought of it — Draco’s eyes on him, his hands around Harry’s shoulders, his secret smirk and foreshadowing words — sends a shock of arousal through him, so sharp he nearly cries out.

Draco seems to take it as his cue to work Harry’s flies open while simultaneously pulling the back of his shirt up and round his armpits.  He lets out a frustrated little groan, nearly tearing out the fabric in his haste to get Harry naked, and Harry obliges by lifting up from Draco’s body long enough to take his shirt off and throw it on the floor. Draco’s shirt follows Harry’s quickly, and Harry takes a moment to catch his breath and admires the man lying beneath him, his body bracketed by Harry’s outstretched arms.

Draco’s chest rises and falls at a rapid rhythm, his milky skin already marred with love bites and stubble burn. He’s so pale, it’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t be attractive at all, Harry thinks numbly, but it is. Harry wants him with a force that would surprise him, if it truly was that surprising. Images of his teenage wanking fantasies flash through his brain as he trails his thumbnail over Draco’s left nipple, hard and pebbled, and Draco bites his lip to hold back a moan. Memories assault him: flashes of pale gold hair gleaming in the sun; the smell of freshly-cut grass and Quidditch leather gear; the long expense of white skin he’d caught a glimpse of once, in the Quidditch showers, before he’d hastily beaten a retreat, abashed and horrified by his body’s response.

There’s none of it now, because it all makes sense, in the way things do in the strangest of times.  

Draco lifts an eyebrow in smug entreaty and asks him, “Like what you see, Potter?”

Harry cups his jaw between both palms and kisses him again, fast and hungry.

They rock into each other desperately, Draco’s hands in Harry’s hair pulling almost painfully. It’s brilliant, it’s amazing, and Harry wants nothing more than to get Draco out of his clothes and naked against the dark leather of the sofa. Sliding a hand between them, Harry laughs at Draco’s shocked exhale when his knuckles brush against the hard length of his cock, pressed against the delicate fabric of his trousers. He fumbles with Draco’s flies and manages to unfasten them, pulling at Draco’s trousers until Draco bats his hand away.

“Fuck off, Potter, these are fucking Armani!” Draco laughs against Harry’s chest as he shimmies out of his trousers, pulling his black boxers down at the same time.  His cock springs free, long and impossibly hard as it hits his stomach, and Harry swallows against the tightness in his throat. “Show some delicacy,” Draco chastises him, but it sounds like he’s teasing him instead.

“I’ll be careful,” Harry mumbles absently, and immediately bends his head over Draco’s navel, nuzzling at the golden fuzz trailing down from there. His heart is beating so fast, he has no idea how he’s going to make it to the end of the night.

“Don’t,” he hears Draco tell him, his long fingers sliding almost sweetly through Harry’s tangled curls. He realises Draco’s panting, too, and he feels a little better for it. “Don’t be. I want you to take me rough, Harry. Fuck me hard like the bloody Gryffindor you are.”

Harry’s head snaps up to Draco and he stares at him, eyes wide. Draco looks impossibly smug, like he’s enjoying himself tremendously, which he probably is. Getting Harry hot and flustered used to be his favourite pastime. Well, perhaps just _angry_ and flustered back then — but maybe also just a little bit hot.

“Merlin, the mouth on you,” he breathes.

“Ever fucked a Slytherin, Potter?” Draco’s smirk grows wider.

“I’m willing to bet even Slytherins know when to shut up,” Harry tells him, rubbing his face into Draco’s belly and breathing in the musky scent of his cock not even two inches away from his nose.

“Maybe. But what’s the fun in that?” Draco’s hand fists Harry’s hair and Harry nearly moans. “Do you want me to shut up?”

“Fuck no,” Harry groans, quite truthfully. He lifts his head just a little, and takes Draco’s cock in his mouth without warning.

 _“Oh!”_ Draco bucks into him, and it’s only Harry’s firm hands on his hips that prevent him from choking. _“Ohmyfuckinggod,_ Potter, _yes,_ you absolute bastard,” he moans, plunging both hands into Harry’s hair. Harry takes him deeper, running his tongue flat on the underside of his cock as he pulls back up, hollowing his cheeks to suck at Draco’s crown. He catches Draco’s eyes as he licks at his slit, already dripping bitter on his tongue, and Draco lets out a shaky little laugh.

“Fuck, Potter, it’s like I’m fifteen and wanking to the thought of you on your knees for me,” he says and Harry smiles, maintaining the eye contact while simultaneously thinking he might combust and die of desire.

“Is that so?” he says playfully, rubbing his cheek along Draco’s erection, wet from his own saliva.

“Yes,” Draco’s breaths come out ragged and fast. “That, or your cock shoved deep in my arse.”

“That can be arranged,” Harry grins harder, feeling bold and competent like he’s rarely felt during sex. “Get on your hands and knees,” he orders.

Draco turns over so fast, Harry almost falls from the sofa. He wants to laugh at the utter absurdity of the situation. He wishes he could see his fifteen-year-old self if someone had told him he would one day have Draco Malfoy offer himself up to him, in all his splendid nakedness and trembling want and sharp edges that would probably never dull. Instead, he gets on his knees and pushes his pants and jeans down his thighs, not even bothering to take them off all the way before he wandlessly conjures lube in his right hand and lays his left palm against Draco’s buttock.

“Okay?” he asks, suddenly unsure. Draco hasn’t snapped at him for over thirty seconds. There must be something going on.

“I swear, Potter, if you play the self-righteous Gryffindor again, I’ll…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because he’s interrupted by his own whimper when Harry slips a finger along the crease between his arse cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harry says mock-offhandedly, planting biting kisses between his shoulder blades. “You prefer me as a — what was it? — a _hard, rough Gryffindor?”_

“Precisely,” Draco tells him, and his whole body trembles as Harry’s finger lingers against his tightly furled hole. It flutters under his touch, and Harry slips in to the knuckle, pumping it carefully until it goes in further. Draco’s arse grips him like a vice, but he groans into the cushion, “Come _on,_ Potter, I can take it, I said _rough.”_

Harry knows better than to argue and shoves his finger deeper, making Draco cry out a broken, _“Yes!”_  A second finger follows shortly, and when Draco’s hole feels loose enough, a third. Within a minute, Draco is moaning loudly and Harry knows it won’t take much longer. Draco is already wet and loose and almost ready, so hot that Harry thinks he might die if he doesn’t get to fuck him soon.

“How do you — how do you feel?” he manages, regretting his words when Draco snorts a second later. He lifts his head from the sofa and glances at him with that mocking expression that Harry’s come to find oddly sexy, really.

“How do I _feel?_  Mmh. Merlin, I don’t know. Should we sit down and talk about our feelings while we braid each other’s hair?”  His eyes turn hot and dark, and he drops the teasing tone. “Just put it in me, Potter. Pound me ‘til I scream. Fuck me like it’s _my fucking birthday.”_

Harry laughs breathlessly, even though he’s almost choking with the shocking wave of lust that zings right to his bollocks at Draco’s words. “Bossy.”

“I’d say,” Draco snorts, and he wriggles his arse a little. Harry gives him a light slap and he yelps and laughs. “Merlin, Potter. Hanging around with Slytherins is turning you naughty.”

“I’m not hanging around with Slytherins,” Harry corrects him. “Just the one, and he’s a truly insufferable git.” He conjures some more lube, pumps his fist over his cock once, twice, feeling his already-hard length thicken at the thought of being inside — _fuck_ — being inside Draco soon.

“Don’t know why you bother, then,” Draco says, pushing his arse back against Harry’s palm, and there’s just a tiny undercurrent of doubt in his voice.

“I don’t know either,” Harry confesses, “but he’s strangely likeable,” he adds as he lines his cock with Draco’s hole and nudges inside, “and he’s the sexiest bastard I’ve ever seen.”

 _“Yes,”_ Draco hisses, and he shoves back an inch, slotting the crown of Harry’s cock inside him.

“Merlin,” is all Harry can say before Draco’s small, rhythmic movements pull him steadily deeper inside the tight heat of his arse. His brain catches up with the reality of what is happening when his cock is already halfway through, and he grabs Draco’s hips, hard, and thrusts forward, driving his cock all the way in. Draco gives a ragged cry and Harry wonders, alarmed, if he’s actually hurt him until Draco rams back against him, undulating his hips with breathy little moans as though he’s not getting enough. So Harry obliges, driving his cock deep again, pressing his hips against Draco’s perfect arse before pulling back and almost out.

“Potter,” Draco warns, fists clenching against the dark leather. He’s going to leave scratch marks on it, Harry thinks vaguely before he pushes back in. “Ohmygod,” Draco whimpers. “Yes, keep doing this,” he moans, and Harry starts thrusting inside him hard and slow, in a rhythm he’s fairly sure Draco likes. More than, judging by the way Draco keeps moaning into the cushion, “Your cock feels fucking amazing, Merlin, Potter”, hands clenching into his blond hair as Harry unrelentingly takes him from behind. “Yes, keep fucking me like that, you beautiful arsehole.”

“I’m going to — come way too soon if you don’t shut your filthy mouth,” Harry grinds, because it’s the truth. There’s something entirely too sinful about Draco’s vulgar words pronounced in that ridiculously posh accent Harry used to hate. Again, _hate_ might be an overstatement. It just used to get him angry. And hot. And flustered.

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Draco purrs, throwing Harry a mischievous glance over his shoulder. “Maybe I want you to come deep inside me, fill me up. Maybe I want to brag about how I made the Saviour of the wizarding world come in less than a minute.”

Harry groans as his bollocks tighten threateningly against his body. He’s so close — but he wants to make it last — they’ve barely started and—

“Come on, Harry, come for me,” Draco tells him, and he closes his eyes and throws his head back, shoving his whole body against Harry’s, arse clenching around Harry’s prick. That’s all it takes, really. The sight of Draco’s face, so open and lost in the moment, the sensation of their bodies moving against each other, his long back arching to fit Harry deeper inside him. Harry comes so hard he sees stars; he shouts something when he does and it might be Draco’s name, but he can’t be sure. Draco keeps rocking against him, coaxing the remainder of his climax from him, Harry’s come turning his tight hole impossibly slick and sending one last hopeful thrill down his cock.

They’re both breathing so hard Harry barely hears Draco when he says, “Alright, that’s one fantasy off my list — but I still haven’t come, Potter.”

 _Oh, fuck. Right._ Harry pulls out of him, his softening cock giving way to a wash of fresh come dripping from Draco’s fluttering arsehole, and he doesn’t think. He turns and flops on his back, nudges Draco’s thighs open and slides under and between them. There’s a split second of eye contact when Draco realises what Harry’s about to do, and he lets out a quivering breath.

“Oh, Potter. Oh Merlin.”

Harry lifts his head up and sucks Draco’s cock into his mouth.

“Fuck, oh fuck, Potter. You truly are — the sexiest bastard — I ever laid eyes on,” Draco babbles mindlessly, and Harry relaxes his mouth, his throat, and lets Draco move. He’s close, Harry is sure of it; his bollocks so round and tight against the back of his cock, Harry’s come dripping along his thighs and onto Harry’s chest. He moans at the thought of how filthy and lost in the moment they both must look, and Draco shoves his prick harder down his throat, groaning incoherently. Harry lifts his hands, runs them along the back of Draco’s thighs while Draco fucks his mouth, rubs his own spunk into Draco’s skin — it’s either that, or Harry swallowing around the head of Draco’s cock, keeping him there for just a second, that undoes Draco. With a ragged groan, his cock pulses once, twice into Harry’s mouth and he comes, thighs hard and shaking against Harry’s palms.

After, when Harry remembers to take off his pants and jeans all the way and he lies naked on his side on the sofa, Draco wraps himself around him like a blanket and purrs like a contented Kneazle. They’re sweaty and still a little sticky where their half-arsed cleaning charms didn’t reach, but it feels brilliant. Draco’s warm chest is pressed against his back, his arm around Harry, his soft cock nestled against the dip of Harry’s arse while his breath tickles his nape.

It occurs to Harry that he’s rarely felt this comfortable after having sex with someone for the first time, and it should be rather shocking that it’s the case with Draco Malfoy, but it’s not. Not really. Not at all. Another thought crosses his sluggish brain, which he voices before he can stop himself.

“I didn’t even know you liked men,” he mumbles, rubbing his eye.

Behind him, Draco startles him by bursting out laughing. Harry turns his head sharply; Draco is already laughing so hard there are tears streaming down his face.

“Potter—” he manages, “did you figure that out when you had your cock in my arse, or when I came in your mouth a minute later?”

Harry blushes, horribly embarrassed.  Five minutes after an orgasm and he’s already making a fool of himself. He shoves his shoulder against Draco’s chest.

“Hey!” Draco protests, still cackling. “You’re the one asking stupid questions!”

“You’re the one who reduced my brain to mush,” Harry mutters. He turns on his back to survey Draco who is laying on his elbow, resting his head in his hand.

“I would be flattered, Potter, if your brain wasn’t already hopelessly mushy.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry rolls his eyes, exasperated but fond. Even post-coital, Draco remains an infuriating git, and Harry wouldn’t change him for the world. Nothing seems to matter right now but Draco’s grey eyes, warm on his; the steady beat of his heart that Harry can feel against his shoulder; his long fingers tracing intricate patterns onto the sensitive skin of his arm.

“Shut up or — you’re going to do… what?”  Draco lifts an eyebrow, smiles. “Kill me? Please. You almost did when we were sixteen.”

At Harry’s abashed expression, Draco trails his hand up Harry’s arm, along his shoulder, his neck, into his hair. He threads his fingers through it reverently, leans in to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth.

He lifts his hand so Harry can see when he counts off his fingers. “So, _kill me_ — already done. _Fuck me_ — check,” he smirks. “The only thing left to do is _marry me,_ I suppose.”

Harry snorts.“You’ve already got more birthday presents than you deserved, Malfoy. This one will have to wait until next year. If you're good.”

“Oh, bugger. That shall never happen, then,” Draco tells him with a wink. “Don’t get your hopes up, anyway. I’m very picky.”

“You don’t say,” Harry teases. He grabs Draco’s wrist, pulls until Draco wriggles and lays over him. He’s already half hard again by the time Draco’s body slots against his, and Draco’s not much better. “I still have a year to convince you.”

“Hmm, there’s not much time left, then,” Draco nudges Harry’s nose with his, that lopsided little smile of his making his stomach backflip before he leans in and kisses him deep.  “Let’s not waste any more time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are lovely!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lettersbyelise)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] The Twist Contest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163343) by [lettersbyelise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/pseuds/lettersbyelise)




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